


Even the Bravest

by Webhoard



Series: Even the Smallest [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, DONT WORRY DOUGLASS WILL BE OKAY, Did I Mention Angst?, F/M, I like to think I'm funny, I'm just really sorry ok, STEVEN GRANT ROGERS BLUSHES AT THE DROP OF A HAT, but a lot of angst until then, scouts honor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Webhoard/pseuds/Webhoard
Summary: Steve goes on an undercover mission to catch Castillo, the arms dealer who had attacked him just over a year ago. But when he goes missing in action, you have to keep it together long enough to find him...which is easier said than done.This is a 4-part? (might be more?) sequel of sorts for Even the Smallest, based on a batch of the requests I got. See mymasterlistif you’re curious where I’m headed with this sequel.Previously posted underEven the Smallest Prequels, Sequels, and Deleted Scenes





	1. In Which You Discuss the Finer Points of Tree Climbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, sweet anon, for [this prompt](https://eufeme.tumblr.com/post/173199708011/oh-man-what-about-like-a-fic-where-theyre-well)! Hope I do ya proud. 
> 
> You get a bit more than tipsy on a final hurrah before sending Steve off on a long covert mission. But even that hanging over your head can’t keep you from running off at the mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Update, September 16:** OK, so I didn't like how this coherent series was kind jammed into a bunch of drabbles set in no particular order. So I decided to transfer this to a proper fic of its own. I'll be taking down the original from the Prequels and Delted Scenes fic soon. Also! Part 2 will be out today or tomorrow!! 
> 
> \--
> 
> Lol, I know it’s been [Forever since I updated](https://eufeme.tumblr.com/post/176179970166), but I am busy and also very lazy. Anywhoo, hope yall don’t completely hate me after this.....lol, flame me, bitches.
> 
>  
> 
> **Please read Even the Smallest before this.**
> 
>  
> 
> This is a 4-part? (might be more?) sequel of sorts for Even the Smallest, based on a batch of the requests I got. See my [masterlist](https://eufeme.tumblr.com/post/168753951310/even-the-smallest-masterlist) if you’re curious where I’m headed with this sequel....In short, I got inspired and found a way to weave these requests together into a fluid storyline, rather than a bunch of choppy one-shots. Yall are probably going to hate me most of the time, but it’s cool. I can take it.

**Previously**

_“Long story short, one of the flunkies of Castillo, the arms dealer we’re tracking, shot Steve with a syringe and now he looks like this.” Tony didn’t even bother pouring his Scotch into a glass with one of his fancy spherical ice cubes. He drank it right from the bottle, and that was more than a little disquieting._

__

__

_“Okay, let’s get you a glass,” you chided, still speaking in a whisper, taking the bottle from his fingers. “So what’s the long story? Because I’m assuming you’ve called me in because it could be catastrophic if this were leaked to the public, that Captain America is weaker than a fifth grader!”_

_“The long story,” Natasha cut in from her position at the table across the kitchen; apparently you hadn’t been as quiet as you’d assumed, “is that we had bad intel. We walked right into a trap when we tried to bust one of Castillo’s minor distribution warehouses outside of La Plata.”_

__

_You and Tony brought over a variety of beer, wine, and liquor bottles and glasses to match while Natasha continued, reaching across the table for the vodka and a tumbler, “Castillo must have been working on developing a new chemical weapon, something that could take down Captain America or the Winter Soldier without killing them. A sort of symbolic defeat of the strength of the Avengers, one that would make headlines. We have kind of been a thorn in his side for several years now.”_

_..._

__

_“Who died? You all look positively miserable!” Your forced smile fell as soon as they looked up at you. “Okay, seriously?”_

_Sam spoke up, a heavy look on his face, “Dr. Aguirre, that’s who.”_

_You gave a confused shake of your head and shrugged your shoulders slightly. You had no idea who that was._

_Tony clarified, “Aguirre was one of the researchers working for Castillo, the one Sam, Rhodey, and Clint apprehended.” Realization dawned on you as new questions of ‘when’ and ‘how’ flooded your mind, and the questions must have been evident on your face as Tony continued, “He was found dead in his holding cell right after I texted you. It’s not yet clear if it was a suicide or foul play, but we’ve got crime scene techs combing the whole cell block for evidence in case it’s the latter.”_

* * *

**A Year and Some Months Later**

“Never have I ever…gone streaking,” Steve called over the loud music Sam and Natasha had insisted on blasting from every speaker, his eyes fixed on yours, smirk taunting you.

You’d had only two fingers left up, so you lowered your index, effectively flipping him off before taking your shot, though you couldn’t help but smile back at him. You’d have your revenge. Unfortunately, no one else dropped a finger for that challenge, not even Tony, who then promptly fixed you with a dangerous smile.

“Y/N, spill, now,” Tony called, looking like a kid on Christmas morning.

You shook your head, unable to keep the smile off your face, though you were fairly certain that had as much to do with the drinks as the game. “Let’s just say, that none a’yall knew me in college and leave it at that,” you slurred out.

“Ah, c’mon, I always knew you had a secret side, and you can’t hide it forever,” Tony laughed out, clearly not wanting to ‘leave it at that.’

“I told Steve, the traitor, that story in confidence. You will have to torture me to get me to talk or magically make me drunker than I already am. Now!” Your voice was a little slurred, just a little too loud, “I believe it’s my turn.” You locked eyes with Steve, and he at least had the decency to let a nervous glint flicker across his eyes. 

“Wanda, I’m sorry. You’re just collateral damage, nothing personal,” you preambled, still not looking away from Steve, “Never have I ever,” you paused for dramatic effect, “let a German scientist experiment on me and turn me into an enhanced super hero.”

Wanda let out a groan as she dropped a finger, “Damn it, Y/N!”

Steve, on the other hand, pursed his lips, unsuccessfully attempting to hide a mirthful smile as he slowly lowered his index finger, flipping you off in return, his brow cocking suggestively. You couldn’t tell if it were the rum and coke or his expression that was making your cheeks feel so unbearably warm as you stared right back.

“Geez, will you two get a room?!” Sam growled, feigning irritation at your obvious flirting. 

You just smiled and choked out a laugh, rolling your eyes at yourself as much as at Sam. For all the shit he and Bucky gave you and Steve, you both knew it was all in good fun.

“Actually, that sounds like a great idea, Sam. Thank you,” Steve quickly replied, standing from his seat across the coffee table. “I’d much rather spend my last night here with Y/N than any of you ugly bastards.”

There was a chorus of groans as you rose to your feet with a laugh that almost sounded genuine, Steve’s words ringing in your ears.

... _last night here..._  

After a round of ‘goodbyes’ and ‘get home safes,’ you and Steve made your way to the elevators, you leaning into his firm chest more to keep from stumbling than anything else. You were pretty sure that your smiles seemed as lighthearted as you’d intended.  


Then the doors shut, enveloping you and Steve in a silence that contrasted sharply with the din of the common room, your ears ringing slightly in the sudden calm. You fixed your eyes on the floor.

You could hear Steve let out a long held breath, “Y/N, you can put up a front for the others, but you don’t have to do that for me.”

You chanced peeking at him from your peripheral vision, “What do you mean?” Your voice cracked slightly, ruining the casual tone you’d attempted.

“Y/N, I’m going to be gone for more than a month, a whole month that I won’t be able to see you, talk to you, or have anything to do with you. And every time someone brings up this mission, you get quiet and distant. This is our last night together, and while I don’t want to argue, I think you at least owe me the truth.” His brows were pinched, and his eyes slightly dewy as he finished. 

The words stung a little, but mostly because Steve was right. “I know,” you sighed, a long pause hanging in the air. 

“What’s going on in there?” He gently tapped the side of your head with the pad of his index and middle fingers.

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “I don’t want you to go on this mission, Steve. But I know that I have no right to ask that of you, so I opted for awkward silences instead.”

Steve let out a breathy laugh, gently taking your shoulders and turning you to face him. “You really think I hadn’t figured that out already?” He ducked his head down, finally catching your lowered eyes, a warm smile lighting his face.

You leaned your head forward, letting it press against his as you began, voice barely a whisper, “I know why you wanted this mission. It’s personal for you, and that’s what scares me most. Castillo painted a target on you, and now you’re gonna walk right back into his line of sight.” 

You looked anywhere but his eyes, “Steve. If something happens to you, I—” Your voice cracked, and you shut your mouth abruptly.

Luckily, you were saved by the bell, as it were, as the elevator doors opened with a ping. Steve gave you a soft but piercing stare that all but screamed, ‘I love you, but there’s no way in hell we’re done with this conversation.’

The vaguely unsettled silence pervaded the air between you both as you and he slipped on your helmets—you’d finally convinced him to wear one, super soldier or not. He revved the motorcycle to life, and even with your raw nerves, you had to bite your lip to keep from wolf-whistling at him before you confidently straddled behind him on the seat, taking a firm but comfortable hold around his middle, a stark contrast to the timidity you’d felt that first ride on his bike just over a year ago.

And before you knew it, he was sweeping down the ever busy streets of Manhattan to Queens with a kind of grace that clashed with his loudness of his motorcycle.

* * *

When the roar of the engine finally died down and your helmets were removed, you and he were inexplicably still astride the bike, your arms reclaiming their hold around Steve’s chest and Steve’s hands still resting on the handlebars.

“I’ve never loved anyone before you, Steve,” you spoke the words almost without meaning to, before your mind could shut your mouth for you. You buried your face into the dip between his shoulder blades.

Steve remained patiently silent, letting you set the pace, letting you decide when to speak again.

“I’ve dated before you, almost a whole year with one ex, but I’ve never loved any of them. Once things got emotional, I’d usually just bail,” you paused, but the strange anonymity of not having to look Steve in the face made it easier somehow to speak.

“I’ve never even told someone I loved them—I mean romantically. Relatives and friends don’t count.” You shook your head slightly as you stumbled over the words. Steve still sat silently, patiently. “You’re the first, Steve. If something happens to you on this mission—no. I don’t even want to think about that. It scares me. Steve, every time you leave, it scares me. But you’re Captain America. I knew what I was signing up for. I can’t ask you to not be who you are, who you will always be, but I also can’t pretend I’m okay with it every time you leave on a quinjet to god knows where.”

Steve didn’t utter a sound, but he let his left hand leave the handlebar and come to rest over yours, his fingers lacing into your tightening grip.

“This isn’t a normal mission. This is dangerous, and this Castillo guy has had it out for you for years. And you’ve never gone away this long before, and certainly not without the ability to call me,” you groaned before continuing, “I get why you can’t contact me, but Steve, a whole month without you, any part of you...” You trailed off.  


With a final sigh, you finished, “I know it sounds dumb and cliché and whatever, I don’t give a fuck. You’re going to be gone for a month, maybe longer. Just promise me you won’t do anything brave. Don’t try to be a hero and save the day. Just get your intel and get out.”

You could feel Steve’s chest expand as he took a deep breath, so you fell silent and waited for him to take his turn speaking, squinting your eyes against the glare of headlights from a passing car and doing your best to block out the roar of the city’s sirens, horns, and voices.

“I won’t ever make a promise I know I can’t keep, Y/N,” he began, his voice on the precipice of something more. “I can promise I won’t be especially reckless, but I can’t promise that I won’t be taking risks.”

You granted him the same silent listening he’d given you as he, no doubt, scrunched his face and furrowed his brows, “I know that Castillo is dangerous, I know that. Look at what happened last time. Bad intel, anti-serums, Sam and Bucky having to deal with me.”

“And me!” You broke your silence with a strained laugh, reminding him of the support you’d given him.

“And you, of course,” you could hear the smile in his voice. “Anyway, this mission is top level clearance only. The only people who know about it are the Avengers, you, Pepper, and a select few intel operatives. I’ll be wearing a [photostatic veil](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/Photostatic_Veil) the whole time and using a voice modifier for all face to face and phone meetings with our moles and contacts. Castillo will never even know I left New York.”

“Besides,” he added, a smirk coloring his voice, “What’s the worst that can happen? I get hit with anti-serum again and have to get a new inhaler until we can break into the Smithsonian?”

You gave his hand a squeeze as if to agree to disagree before speaking, barely biting back a reflexive smile, “Steve, I know I don’t say it much, but,” you swallowed an imaginary lump in your throat, “I love you. I’m gonna miss you so much.” And with that you had to cut yourself off lest your voice break again.

His thumb was idly stroking the tops of your knuckles as you he sat there on his bike a few moments longer, settling into the first comfortable silence you and he had shared since he’d requested the mission several weeks prior.

* * *

Douglass chirped as he leapt down from his spot at the top of his cat tree and immediately began weaving between yours and Steve’s legs, giving you your daily balance practice as you tried to avoid stepping on him. 

Steve chuckled lightly, reaching down to scratch his fingers through Douglass’ long fur right behind the ears, “Hey buddy, missed you too.”

Despite your still raw feelings, you couldn’t help but smile at that. Seeing the genuine care Steve had for Douglass where previous partners had held only mild tolerance was something that warmed you every time. 

Or maybe that was the alcohol still coursing through your veins and warming your cheeks. While the conversation outside had seemed to temporarily sober you, you couldn’t deny that you were more than a little buzzed as the floor kept tilting to the left.

That realization was soon drowned out by a sudden wave of want as you shamelessly stared at Steve’s ass while he was still bent over petting Douglass.

“You know, it’d actually be okay if you got shot with that anti-serum again.” Your voice was just a touch too loud for the small apartment.

Steve’s brows pinched with smiling worry as he stood from his crouch. “Alright, I’ll bite,” Steve groaned with barely hidden amusement, “Why is that?”

“Because when you were small, you were so cute. I mean, really, really cute Steve.” You hoped you were sauntering over to him, but a small remaining shred of sobriety knew you were probably just swaying, “I woulda climbed you like a tree.” 

Steve looked unimpressed but there was a laughing glint in his eyes.

You spat out a short laugh, “Well, more like a sapling.”

Steve rolled his eyes good-naturedly, handing you a glass of water, the command to drink it implicit in the action.

“There’s so many things we could do if you were small again,” you continued as you sat at the kitchen table sipping your water while Steve poured out some kibble for a very appreciative Douglass, “Arm wrestle, mud wrestle, regular wrestle, climb stuff, and,” you waggled your eyebrows at him, “sex stuff.”

That was one straw too many for Steve apparently, as he reared back with a self-conscious groan, “God, Y/N, what did Tony put in those shots? What’s gotten into you?” The tips of his ears flamed red, and it spread down his neck to his throat and chest, over which he crossed his arms protectively.

“What?” You laughed with feigned innocence, “I’m just really attracted to you, okay? And it’s your last night here for a while, so I’m letting myself get effusive. Is that so wrong?”

He bit back a smile, “You’d really have slept with me without all this?” He gestured to his muscled body, currently hidden under a soft navy blue cardigan.

“Yes! How many different ways do I have to phrase it?” You looked at him as though it were completely obvious, “I love you for you, Steve, you know that. But damn if I wasn’t hot for you even when you were small. How you never had girlfriends and admirers back in the day, you know before Captain America, is beyond me.” You grinned at his still flushed skin, “You were quite a catch and still are.”

Clearly embarrassed by your open admiration of his pre-serum and current self, he pushed away from the counter he had been leaning on with a huff. “Alright, I think it’s time you and I got to bed, sleep off this night of drinking, yeah?”

“You can’t run from the truth forever,” you laughed out before taking a final gulp of your water, letting Steve pull you to your feet and guide you to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

After another small cup of water, you let yourself fall onto the bed and into the plush covers, quickly finding the sanctuary of Steve’s chest to wrap yourself around.

You inhaled greedily through your nose, trying to memorize the smell of Steve, the feel of his muscled chest beneath your palms, the overwhelming warmth that wrapped around you as tightly as his arms.

You were glad that your effusively good mood was still lingering or else you might have slipped into despair as you and Steve held each other in the dark of your bedroom and Douglass came to claim his regular place amongst his and your tangled ankles.

“Steve?” you whispered, voice barely audible over the roar of your window AC unit.

“Hmm?” He hummed back, reflexively tightening his hold on you.

“I know you’re leaving early, but you’ll wake me before you go, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he reassured, letting his hand stroke the back of your outstretched arm lightly as he pressed his lips to the top of your head. “Now, let’s get some sleep.”

* * *

When you awoke, you were alone on the bed. Your heart very nearly began to sink at being alone, but the sound of Steve moving around the kitchen buoyed your spirits for at least a moment longer. 

You wanted these last few kisses to be perfect, so you shuffled into the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. Your head only pounded slightly, thanks in part to all the water Steve had made you drink, but you popped a couple aspirin for good measure.

With a heavy weight in your chest you finally made your way down the short hall to the kitchen, where Steve had made a small stack of French toast and a fruit bowl. You didn’t even want to know how he’d justified buying the expensive raspberries and blueberries.

He looked up from the last few pieces of toast, still cooking in the pan, to give you a too warm smile, the kind that acted as a thin veil over anxiety and pain.

“Good morning, my love,” he cooed softly, sensitive of your probable hangover. “Hope you don’t mind all the dishes, but I just really wanted to make you breakfast before I left.”

You swallowed down any number of complaints at the mention of his leaving to offer him a sarcastic smile, “Gosh, what a burden, having to clean a frypan, bowl, and paring knife after my boyfriend made me breakfast. Red flag, Rogers, red flag.”

He smirked before turning back to the stove, “I see you’re not feeling quite as effusive this morning as you did last night.”

You shrugged your shoulders as you poured two steaming mugs of coffee for you both, “Apparently not. That said,” you blew lightly across your mug, “I stand by everything I told you last night.” You quirked a brow at him when he looked up, “Like a sapling.”

He inhaled sharply, clicking his tongue, turning back to the almost done French toast, a hint of red dusting the skin on the back of his neck.

Despite the spread of sweet French toast, syrup, fruit, and coffee, breakfast was a subdued affair. And even though you were well beyond full, you were fixing to reach for a third slice out of some vain attempt to put off the inevitable when Steve reached over the table and placed his hand over yours.

His eyes flitted the clock on the stove, “I need to leave here pretty soon.” 

And with that, the bite you’d been chewing seemed to turn to ash in your mouth, and you swallowed it down with a gulp of coffee, “I know.” You weren’t sure what else to say. You wanted to say _I love you. I’m going to think about you every minute of every day till you get back. How am I supposed to sleep without you there beside me? In that empty and cold bed?_ But you knew that begging him to stay and guilting him further about leaving would be the opposite of helpful, so you sat there still holding his hand trying to commit to memory the way his callouses felt under your fingers.

“Look, I know it’s not easy for you,” his eyes were thoughtful as he spoke, “When Bucky left for the front, and I was stuck in Brooklyn, I felt alone and helpless.”

“So you immediately went and jumped into an untested radiation pod,” you argued, secretly hoping to get just a little of rise out of him.

He pursed his lips to keep from smiling, “Yes, that is true. Do I need to ask Nat to surveil you, keep you away from shady doctors and scientists? Is that what you’re getting at?”

You smiled ruefully.

“The point is,” he continued, “I get it. When Bucky went away, I felt like I had nothing left, and nothing left to lose. Hence, running off with Erskine and the SSR.” He had the decency to look a little sheepish at that. “So, here’s what I propose,” He scooted forward in his seat as he spoke, “When I get back, you and I will go away for a while. Anywhere you want, just you, me, and Douglass for a few weeks. God knows you earned the vacation time and then some.”

It was only a bandaid, but at least it was something. You let your eyes turn wistful as you looked up, “I’ve always wanted to visit New Zealand, see the hobbit village.”

Steve’s eyes lit up with a relieved smile, “And I hear they have the best lamb chops in the world.”

You almost laughed, were it not for the twisting sensation in your stomach, “Who could ask for more?”

Seeing Steve off might have felt much like any other day had there not been a cloud over your head, were you not staring down a month or more without him, were it not for that unsettling, gnawing feeling in your gut that something about this mission was off.

Steve had taken a few moments to brush his fingers through Douglass’ long mane, giving him a few last pats and kisses. Then he’d scooped you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck, holding you for an comfortably uncomfortable long time.

And when he kissed you, there was a barely subdued edge of raw emotion, his breath just a touch too laborious, his fingers gripping your sides a bit firmer than normal.

And when he pulled back, there was a mistiness in his eyes that he quickly blinked away, “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“You better.” Your voice shook, but you smiled at him as best as you could.

“I love you, Y/N,” his eyes locked with yours.

“Do I have to say it?” You joked.

Steve rolled his eyes and grinned back, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I love you, Steve.”

Steve’s smile fell, his face becoming softly somber as his eyes raked over your face, no doubt committing you to memory as you’d done with him. 

The sudden and unsettling sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket signaled the end of your goodbyes as he silenced it with an impatient huff.  


He opened his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it, “I know, Steve. Go.”

“I love you so much,” he said as he wrapped his arms around you once more.

“I love you too, dummy, now go before Tony finally ruptures that aneurysm he’s been working on.”

With a grin and a final kiss, Steve was out the hall, and you shut the door with a soft click. 

You stood there, your back leaning against the door for an indeterminate time. The only sound in your apartment was the soft stroking sound of Douglass grooming himself, interrupted by the occasional tinkle of his collar and tags.

One month.

You shuffled quietly past the kitchen where the few dirty dishes sat in the sink, and walked back to your bedroom.

One month.

You sank down under the covers and reached over, taking Steve’s pillow in your arms and burying your face into, inhaling deeply. 

One month.  


But when do things ever go to plan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that it’s kind of a bummer of an ending. I honestly can’t say it’s going to get better.....for a while. Gimme some love or scream at me. I’ll be happy either way for the attention. THANK YOU ALL FOR STICKING WITH ME!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [From this prompt.](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/155958180) Steve’s been gone for more than a month on his undercover mission, and just when you think the loneliness can’t get any worse...it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm, so yall are gonna straight up hate for this one....yeah. But in all seriousness, this is pretty dark, so if you’re in a bad place emotionally right now, you might want to hold off on this for now. Come back when the final part is out, and it’s all resolved.
> 
> And a special thank you Ao3 commenter, jennalooho for this prompt, which is also the whole reason I’ve done any of these deleted scenes and sequels!!

When you awoke, it was still dark outside. Douglass was currently under the crook of your armpit, staring at you unblinkingly, and when you shifted ever so slightly to get a glimpse of your glowing alarm clock, he bolted from his position with an insistent meow, leaving you rubbing the sore spot on your arm that he had used as his runway.  


It was just a few minutes before your alarm was set to go off, so you heaved yourself out of bed and stumbled down the hall, priding yourself on the fact that you only ran into the wall once. As you sliced an apple and made toast, the only other sounds in your kitchen were the sputtering and bubbling of your dripmaker and the clacking of kibble and collar tags against Douglass’ enameled food bowl.

You read quietly on your tablet as you ate at the table, spooning just the right side of too much peanut butter on every bite of apple, while Douglass sat opposite you, eyes not leaving the buttered toast that seemed to have hypnotized him. For such a judgey and stoic cat, he sure had no shame when it came to food.

It was unsettling how normal this new-old routine felt. After years of living alone with Douglass, you had grown so accustomed silence and solitude. And then Steve had plowed into your life, making his presence a necessary part of your new norm in just a year. And now, more than a month in, this old silent routine almost felt like an unwanted visit home, eerily familiar but intolerable.

Forty-seven days. 

Still no word on Steve.

By the time you made it to work on this, the forty-eighth day, you were ready for the weekend already, which was not exactly a great way to greet a Monday morning. 

You sighed as you opened your work email, finding it devoid of memos regarding Steve or his mission, not that you were shocked by the utter absence of news.

The team had assured you that it was normal for covert ops such as this to extend far longer than planned. And without a security clearance, it would be bending far too many rules to give you any new details. The rules had already been bent far enough to let you know where Steve had gone and why. Most spouses in the CIA and FBI were extended far fewer intel privileges than you’d already been given. So you’d learned to stop asking, most of the time.

But despite the reassurances of Tony, Natasha, and the others, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his absence every day, a twinge in your gut that this wasn’t, in fact, normal. And it didn’t help that the other Avengers had been going on so many related missions lately that you hardly ever saw them to get said reassurances any more.

“Ms. Y/LN?” A timid voice sounded from your office door. It was Matt. Again. “I was wondering if you could help me with the fax machine again, sorry.”

You bit the inside of your lip, which was already raw from the amount of chewing it had been subjected to in the last month of worrying over Steve and fussing over Matt, but you refrained from sighing, forcing yourself to almost smile, “Of course, I’ll be right there.”

Matt was the new intern Pepper had insisted your department take on, and whose training you had been tasked with. As the lead in the PR department, a title you’d earned after the whole serum debacle, it was a great way for you to stay connected and grounded with your former-coworkers whom you now supervised. But there was a reason you had gone into PR and not teaching, and your patience was wearing thin.

“So just type in the number, put the pages in upside down and face down, then hit the start/fax button,” you said for the second time that morning, doing your best at a neutral but supportive tone. 

As Matt beeped out the fax number, your mind wandered to the unknown port city in Brazil where Castillo’s operations had moved and where Steve was sure to be, you hoped.

When the fax machine rang out the error tone, you suppressed a grimace as you snapped back to the present, “Matt, it’s long distance. Did you remember to type 1 before the area code?” You asked in what you thought sounded like a kindergarten teacher’s voice.

“Doh, no, Ms. Y/LN!” He blustered, re-collecting the pages to send again, “I always forget about that. Could you just double check the number for me before I hit send?”

He looked so damned earnest that it would have been hard to say no, so you just faked a smile and nodded your head.

But before Matt could even desperately search for the fax number on the cover page, you both were interrupted by a particularly surly looking Bucky.

“Y/N, Tony’s calling a meeting up in the residences,” his face was stony as he regarded you and Matt, “I’ve come to collect you.”

You willed your heart to stop fluttering at what you could only assume was bad news as you turned to the stunned intern, “Matt, sweetie, if you need any help, Marsha is my right hand. She can walk you through anything, okay?” You kept your voice as even and sweet as you could manage given your lack of patience and sudden spike in adrenaline. Marsha, from the temporary safety of her desk, gave you a strained look as she tugged absently at the end of one her graying dreadlocks, to which you responded with an apologetic smile. To be honest, Matt was testing most everyone’s patience.

Bucky kept his face grim the whole walk to the elevator, but when the doors slid shut, his face broke into a more relaxed expression, almost smiling. 

“Sorry, doll. Gotta keep those pencil pushers on their toes.”

“Ass,” you laughed out nervously, your gut still churning at the unexpected meeting, wondering if it was about Steve. “So what’s this meeting about? Any news on Steve that you can give me?”

The hint of smile you’d seen fell away, and the dark circles around his eyes became that much more pronounced, “Don’t worry, we’ll let you know what we can as soon as is possible.”

It was line you’d heard so many times over the last month of waiting that you wondered if the whole team had carefully crafted it in a meeting of their own, keeping it just vague enough to manage your expectations without actually saying anything meaningful.

You sighed and nodded your head, pinching the corners of your mouth.

When you walked into the now familiar kitchen of the Avengers’ residence, you were seeing some of the team for the first time in weeks. Everyone seemed to have the same drawn looks and bloodshot eyes that you’d noticed with Bucky. It was clear that all these side missions had been taking their toll.

Tony gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he spoke, passing a beer across the kitchen table to you.

“Um, Tony, not that I’m going to say no to a free beer, but it’s like ten in the morning,” you smirked, almost kidding yourself that you felt as lighthearted as you were pretending to be.

“Well, why not?” He sighed, “I didn’t pull you away from anything important did I?”

“Nah, just showing my new intern how to send a fax for the millionth time. Kid’s gonna go places for sure,” you spoke honestly, “But goddammit, Tony. He’s driving me crazy. He’s always going on about his boring-ass boyfriend who’s an accountant at some bank. Dante this, Dante that. So believe me, I’m glad to get away.” You then added as an afterthought, “Plus, he’s got mega letter-stuffing anxiety.”

Sam’s brows pinched as he smirked at you, his bloodshot eyes not quite selling his seemingly easy demeanor, “That a euphemism for sex or something?”

You looked at him flatly, “No, I mean he gets really anxious about putting the wrong letter in every envelope, writing the address wrong, or faxing to the wrong number. It’s ridiculous. He’ll stare at the touchtone pad for a full minute before he actually hits send.”

Sam opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Tony’s irritated disbelief.

“Wait, wait, am I the only here who has a problem with the fact you’re sending things by fax at one of the most technologically advanced companies in the world?” He gesticulated exaggeratedly, “Do we also have a coop of homing pigeons I didn’t know about?”

You smiled and shook your head, “This may surprise you, boss, but there are companies we do business with that have next to nothing in the way of tech, and certainly not a Friday. So yeah, sometimes we use the fax machine and snail-mail.”

“Well, I’m still appalled,” he smiled wryly, scratching at his goatee.

Before you could respond with more banter in an effort to make your fake smile easier, Agent Maria Hill, with whom you’d only rarely interacted, walked into the kitchen, and the atmosphere shifted from a tenuous levity to something heavy and palpably negative.

“Tony, we ready to get started?” She asked in her clipped professional manner, her jaw tense.

Tony responded uncharacteristically with a silent, tight lipped nod while Agent Hill set out her tablet and a few folders and pens.

She cleared her throat and folded her hands on the table before looking across and directly at you. You couldn’t feel your heart beating, and your lips, fingers, and toes went cold.

“Y/N, there’s no easy way to say this,” she began. Your whole body was beginning to feel cold, pins and needles stinging the skin on your chest and throat, “On August 15th, our mission team lost contact with Captain Rogers, Steve.”

You stared at her unblinkingly, your breath freezing in your chest.

Her face softened, and her breath hitched as she spoke, “We immediately sent in Romanoff and Barnes for an extraction, but there was no trace of him. On August 17th, after numerous attempts to contact or locate him failed, we declared him missing in action, but we have continued to send members of the Avengers to Brazil, Argentina, and Portugal on reconnaissance missions.” She lowered her eyes from your as yet unbroken gaze, “We felt we could no longer keep this information from you.”

Your lungs were burning for want of oxygen, and you slowly sucked in a calculated breath, shuddering slightly. Your mind was simultaneously stuck in place, like a fly landing in cold molasses, and reeling with a hundred thoughts, flitting through your mind at a dizzying pace. But there was only one that you could put to voice.

“Day four,” you croaked out, voice barely above a strained whisper.

Agent Hill’s face pinched in concerned confusion, “I’m sorry?”

“August fifteenth,” you repeated. “That was day four of the mission.”

The weight of the accusation was plain in your statement.

“How many of you knew?” You wanted your voice to sound angry, you wanted to scream and accuse. But the question came out sounding more like a desperate plea.

Tony sat forward in his chair, eyes barely able to meet yours, “We all knew, Y/N, but you don’t have a security clearance, and agents go missing during missions all the time before they turn up at a checkpoint a week later out of the blue.” He shook his head, looking down at the table. “There seemed no sense in unnecessarily involving you.”

“But Tony, it’s been over a month,” the bitterness that was, for the moment, outweighing your stomach clenching dread began to come out. “How many times have I asked you about Steve and you told me there was no news? How many times have you looked me in the eyes and lied to me?” You couldn’t keep the tremble out of your voice.

“Y/N,” Natasha finally spoke, looking uncharacteristically demure, “You know we couldn’t tell you, you know that. But we are going to get him back.” Each word came out deliberately, willing you to believe her.

You pressed your lips together, nodding slowly. You didn’t want to admit it, but you knew they were right. Of course they couldn’t have told you. 

Tony cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “For what it’s worth, Y/N. We’re sure that Steve is still alive. Castillo certainly wouldn’t have kept it to himself if Captain America were de—”

“Don’t.” Your head shot up as the words came out with a ragged sound. “Don’t say that.”

Tony held your gaze, nodding hesitantly with understanding.

You looked back down at your hands and the sweating beer bottle still clutched in your grip, which was the only reason they weren’t visibly shaking. Some part of you knew that you weren’t yet feeling the full magnitude of this news, that you were in shock, denial, or some weird combination of the two. But you chewed on your lower lip and swallowed that down for the moment.

“Will we need to send out a press release?” The question was met with silence, so you plowed on ahead. “I can have it drafted by this afternoon if I can just go down and get my laptop from my office,” you were staring thoughtfully down at your phone, pulling up your contacts list. “It’s short notice, but if I can alert just a few of my more reliable media contacts, I’m sure we could have a nearly full press conference prepared before the business day is over. I’d recommend the conference hall on Floor 10. It’s a bit smaller than the usual one, but if the crowd is small on such short notice, it won’t feel as empty as some of the larger halls. And I’ll need to get Marsha to—”

“Y/N,” Tony’s voice cut you off. You looked up at the team for the first time in several minutes. They were all wearing worried and tense expressions. Tony looked almost alarmed, “Y/N, you need to go home. Take the day off and get your head cleared of all this. Get out of the office.”

You tried to ignore the way your eyes were beginning to sting along the waterline, the way your breath kept sticking in your throat. You shook your head, looking away defiantly. “I can’t do nothing. I have to,” your voice finally broke.

You swallowed thickly, pointedly avoiding looking up, “I can’t sit at home while he’s—” You shook your head, willing your eyes to stop watering as you looked back up at Tony, “It’s Steve. Tony. I have to” you swallowed back another hiccup, “I have to do something. Let me help.”

Tony stared at you for a few long seconds before slowly nodding his head, “We’ll send out a press release tomorrow at two.” He paused rubbing at his goatee thoughtfully, “Bring in Marsha and your intern to assist. Give him a proper intro to working for the Avengers.”

Despite the nausea creeping up your diaphragm, the ice that had yet to leave your fingers and toes, and the weight of your own breath in your throat, you couldn’t stop your frustrated eyeroll. “Tony, now’s not the time for School House Rocks. We need experienced professionals for this.”

“You said the kid’s going places, so give him a head start,” he smirked bitterly, “Besides, there’s no need to get up in arms about this. We are getting Cap back, got it?”

You felt a wave of worry pass over you at seeing Tony’s utter lack of conviction in his own words. But now was the time for focus, for getting things done, so you used that distraction to push down every sob, every tear, every fear. You straightened your spine, cleared your throat, and headed for the elevator, leaving your beer untouched on the table, giving the team a last brave look before the doors closed.

* * *

Time passed oddly that day. Sometimes slowing to a crawl, drawing out each second till they felt like days, and other times you felt yourself jumping forward hours at a time in the blink of an eye. 

Marsha and Matt had long left your office when there came a soft knocking on the door jamb.

“Burning the midnight oil, I see?” Came Natasha’s soft, low voice.

You looked up from your computer, shocked to see only the security lights illuminating the office floor behind her. Your eyes flicked over to the clock on the top of your computer screen. 8:36.

Work had ended hours ago. Douglass was probably pacing the kitchen waiting for his dinner, and a wave a guilt washed over you, adding to your already overwhelming sense of malaise.

Natasha, practically seeing your thoughts play themselves out, merely smirked in her way and held up her car keys, “Figured you might want a ride. Beats the subway at least.”

You smiled at her ruefully, “Thanks, Nat. Let me just shut everything down first.”

Natasha waited patiently, wearing an expression of subdued concern as you saved your documents and shut down your computer, shoving your cell phone and a few papers haphazardly into your purse. You couldn’t help but be grateful for the fact that she wasn’t saying anything, asking you how you were, or consoling you with empty promises that ‘everything was gonna be okay.’ She just gave you a tight smile and reassuring nod before leading you to the elevator for the short trip down to the parking garage.

Natasha’s car of the month was a cherry red 2017 Chevy Camaro that you just knew she was driving ironically. And despite your overwhelming and persistently gut-wrenching anxiety, you couldn’t suppress a hint of a grin when you saw the flashy sports car that was probably the car of choice for male mid-life crises in the hands of the petit redhead. 

The drive across Manhattan and the Queensboro Bridge was a quiet affair, with only the sounds of the sporty engine and the radio playing softly to break the silence. The quiet might have been welcome were it not for the fact that it allowed your mind to finally wander unhindered for the first time that day. 

With no more business to attend to, no more paperwork, or busy distractions, your mind was finally beginning to catch up with the sinking, crushing feeling that was threatening to smother and drown you. With your head resting on the window, you stared at the at the dashboard without really seeing it as buildings and headlights flashed by. 

Steve. 

His name seemed to echo through you, body and soul, filling you with dread and longing even as a numb sense of shock made your muscles ache with weakness. 

Steve. _Your_ Steve. Lost. 

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Steve had to be okay. Steve was just missing. That meant there was still a chance, right? He  _had_ to be okay. 

There might have been a time in your life when you could have seen yourself happily living a single life. But now? There was no version of reality in which you could live without Steve. Steve, who had barged into your life and filled a void in your heart that he himself had put there. Steve who understood you and challenged you, but never tried to change you.  _Your_ Steve.

There was no way this was the end, no way that  _this_ was how it eneded. Could it? Steve had survived crashing a plane into a glacier, Chitauri armies, killer robots, and Thanos’ invasion. Santino Castillo and his gang were just men. Ordinary men with ordinary abilities. There was no way this weapons dealer, this normal human, could have ki— No, you wouldn’t complete that thought. No.

Nothing had ever  _felt_ right about this mission. At the time, you had thought it was just reluctance to let go of Steve for a whole month that was making you see things where there was nothing, making you overly suspicious when it was just your bias whispering in your ears.

But something  _had_ been wrong. And now Steve was who knows where. Steve was where you couldn’t find him.

Steve had to come home. Steve  _was_ your home.

Memories, unbidden, flashed before your closed eyes, making every breath a shallow drag as your stomach clenched and twisted. 

Steve setting off the fire alarm when he tried broiling a salmon filet and forgot to set a timer. How it had taken the whole weekend to air out the apartment and how your oven still smelled faintly of burnt fish. 

Steve showing you where he and Bucky had shared a flat during the Depression, cheerfully recounting stories and memories of back alley fights and stepping on girls’ toes in the dance halls. And how quiet he had gotten when he’d taken you to Sarah’s grave.

Steve sleeping in on the weekend with Douglass curled up under the crook of his arm. Steve trying to fold a fitted sheet while you watched on with helpless amusement. Steve humoring you as you watched Air Disasters on the Smithsonian Channel every week, which you supposed was a little insensitive of you given Steve’s piloting record. 

Seeing Steve’s face on the pillow next to you in the morning when you awoke, his arms wrapping around you as you fell asleep at night.  


You were so lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t noticed several rogue tears rolling down your cheeks and hadn’t noticed that Natasha was already parked in front of your apartment until you felt her hand reach across the center console and gently take hold of yours. 

And just like that, the dam broke. You gasped in a shuddering breath as the tears stung your eyes, one falling after another and only spurring yet more to follow. No matter how hard you tried, every hiccupping breath of air seemed to do nothing to quell the burning ache in your lungs as you pointlessly fought to regain control.

“You need to breathe, Y/N,” Natasha said softly. “Deep breath in and hold it.”

You gulped down a shallow breath and held it until Natasha finally said, “Now out, slowly.”

You felt foolish as Natasha walked you through breathing over the next few excruciatingly long moments until you were finally able regain some semblance of control.

Natasha, who could always read a situation with unfailing accuracy, sat there and let you cry it out, saying nothing, her thumb gently drawing circles on the back of your knuckles while the other gently rubbed your shoulder.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. You had no way of knowing. But the tears finally slowed and your sobs finally gave in to sighs.

“What am I supposed to do? Nat? How am I gonna—” You broke off, shaking your head in despair.

When Natasha finally spoke, you were stunned to hear her voice crack, however slightly, “We’re getting him back. We will.”

Looking up, you could see pain written on her normally composed and stoic face. How could you have been so blind today? You had been so wrapped up in ignoring the rush of panic and anxiety today that you hadn’t stopped for a moment to consider that you weren’t the only one hurting. 

A sudden wave of guilt compounded your already overwhelming dejection. Steve, one of the only people in the world with whom Natasha shared even a hint of her thoughts and feelings. Steve, Sam’s best friend and brother in arms. Steve as much a thorn in Tony’s side as he was an irreplaceable center of support. Steve, who you were pretty sure was Bucky’s world entire. That Steve was gone from them as well.

But Natasha, ever the mind reader, didn’t even let you begin to voice those regrets. “Don’t, Y/N. It’s okay. We’ve had a lot longer than you to process this.”

You nodded dully as you took another breath that wasn’t as deep as your lungs needed. And giving Natasha’s hand a feeble squeeze, you croaked out, “I guess I should probably go in. I’m sure Douglass is starving.”

“Of course,” she responded, her voice still gentle and soothing. “You going to be alright? Need me to come up? I’ll stay as long as you need.”

You were touched by her offer. Part of you dreaded going up to an apartment that would now feel even emptier than it already had all month, and the other part of you wanted nothing more than for the solitude it promised where you could cry and tend to your tumultuous emotions without the embarrassment of an audience.

You gave her an appreciative smile, and she seemed to understand as she released your hand with a final squeeze. “I think I just want to be alone for now. I may take you up on that offer later though.”

She nodded her head and smiled sympathetically, “Of course. Just know that all of us are just a phone call away. Got it?”

You huffed out what might have been a laugh under different circumstances, “I know, Nat. Thank you.”

And with that you stepped out of the car, into your building, and made the slow trip up the stairs to your door. 

No sooner had you stepped in than you were greeted by the frantic and impatient meows of Douglass, who circled your feet as he always did before running into the kitchen to his food bowl. In spite of everything, you felt a genuine smile break through the pain as you poured a scoop of kibble out for the eager cat.

The weight of the day was finally becoming too much for you to fight, and you settled down on the ground right there, kicking off your heels and leaning your back against the wall as you watched Douglass wolf down his food, purring all the while.

You had no idea how you were going to face tomorrow or the day after that or the day after that. No doubt, you’d have to put on a brave face and let the heartache roll off your shoulders. 

But for now, as long as you just focused on the silky texture of Douglass’ fur under your fingertips, you could block all that out. 

You let your mind wander to a happy memory, something to distract you from the present. That one quiet and snowy evening back in January when you and Steve had been listening [Billie Holiday’s “Forget If You Can”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myS9lF0GrL4) and despite the fact that neither he nor you knew the first thing about ballroom dancing, he had asked you for a dance in your small living room. You almost smiled remembering how after you both grew frustrated with stepping on each other’s toes, you both settled for simply holding each other and gently swaying with the music. 

There was no possible way you could forget that memory. No possible way you could forget the way his warmth enveloped you, the feeling of his soft sweater under your cheek where you’d rested your head, or the way the scent of cardamom, clove, and citrus from the mulled wine clung to him. 

It was a perfect memory. 

And when your dim and lonely kitchen came back into focus, the peeling linoleum biting into the sensitive skin of your thighs through your work skirt, you didn’t even try to stop the tears that began to fall.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M REALLY FUCKING SORRY OK I PROMISE I WILL MAKE IT RIGHT...............................eventually.
> 
> On another note, [Air Disasters](https://www.smithsonianchannel.com/shows/air-disasters/802) is a real show, and I watch it all the gd time...which is probably ill-advised given that I have had an irrational fear of air travel since I was a kid....and the show doesn’t exactly help...


	3. In Which You Come Home to a Cat Burglar...Alarm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it rains it pours, and at the moment it was raining shit from the moment you entered that press conference. And that was the good part of your week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall gonna straight up hate me. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> DOUGLASS IS GOING TO BE OK DON’T WORRY

The following morning, you woke to your alarm, feeling like you had been hit by a veritable semi-truck. You could literally feel how puffy your eyes were from crying throughout the night, only able to sleep restlessly for an hour or so at a time before waking with a crushing weight in your chest and a sob on your lips. 

You didn’t know it then, but it wouldn’t take more than a handful of days for the truck to back up to finish the job.

But rather than waking to more wrecked sobs and endless tears, it was to an eerily calm malaise. The simple fact was that you had cried so many tears that you seemed to have none left. And neither did you have the energy to frown or even sigh. You just moved.

As though you were walking through a cloud of nitrous, you went about your morning routine, not quite feeling grounded in your own body, a numb sensation creeping from your chest and throat down your limbs to the tips of your fingers and toes. And despite the fact that you knew you should, you couldn’t even summon a small smile or doting sigh as Douglass chirped and purred his merry way to his food bowl.

You stared at the table listlessly as you forced yourself to eat food that you frequently craved but that now tasted of nothing as you mechanically chewed and swallowed.

The last month of not hearing from Steve had been hard but doable. You had been comforted by the fact that in missions like these, no news was good news and went on with life secure in the knowledge that it was just a matter of time before he returned. But now you knew otherwise. Steve was out there somewhere, who knew where. And he was all alone. 

But he _was_ alive, had to be.

You kept repeating that line to yourself. You had to.

But he was also all alone. Just like you.

Soon enough, however, you were stepping out of your apartment building and onto the busy morning streets of Queens, the abundant stimuli of pedestrians and the subway station were enough to knock a small measure of feeling back into your bones and brain. And by the time you were trudging into the chill AC of the Stark Tower entry lobby, flashing the guards your ID badge, you could almost fool yourself into thinking that you’d be able to fool everyone at work that you were fine. 

But you weren’t.

“Y/N, I’ve got my statement prepared if you want to give it a once over,” Marsha said as you stepped off the elevator and walked over to your office. You appreciated that she was getting down to business, not bothering with pointless reassurances and ‘how are you’s.’ 

“Yeah, of course. I’ll take a look at it as soon as I get settled,” you responded absently.

No sooner had you set your things down and gotten your computer started than Matt came shuffling into your office in his usual meek manner. 

“Uhm, Ms. Y/LN?” You looked up, secretly wondering if he was ever going stop calling you ‘Ms.’ and just use your first name. “I didn’t tell him all the details—obviously because they’re classified—but I told Dante enough about what’s going on with your boyfriend that he could understand what you’re going through and, well, here.”

Matt held out a plastic container for you, and you took it from him hesitantly, unsure what to make of it. Cracking open the lid, you saw a large chunk of coffee cake with a crumb topping. You inhaled deeply as soon as the warm scents of vanilla, butter, and cinnamon hit your nose, looking up at Matt expectantly.

“He likes to bake, and he says cinnamon is good for the soul, so…”

When you smiled up at Matt, unlike most other times, it was genuine and heartfelt, “Thank you, Matt. Really. I hope you’ll pass that along to Dante too?”

“Of course.” His face relaxed into an easy smile. “He loves to bake, so if you ever get a sweet tooth, you know who to call.” 

You nodded your head and grinned back, “I’ll keep that in mind. Now,” you valiantly attempted to shift your tone back to your professional clip, “time for us to get to work. Can you go get your things and snag Marsha along the way for me?”

“Sure thing,” he responded with a chipper nod before leaving your office. 

Unable to resist, you reached your hand down and plucked a buttery corner of the cake into your mouth, savoring the creamy cinnamon flavor. Maybe Dante wasn’t so bad and boring as you made him out to be. He did, after all, have a point about the cinnamon because for one fleeting moment as the flavor enveloped you, you felt your anxiety slip away and the sweet cake soothed your senses before Marsha and Matt joined you for what promised to be a busy morning. 

And before you knew it, the morning was gone. It shocked you how quickly the morning blew by when you looked down at your watch and saw that it was just after noon.

“Alright guys. I think we’ve got this down. Let’s take an hour for lunch and then we’ll regroup with Mr. Stark and the team before the press conference at two,” you said, leaning back in your chair and giving yourself a long overdue full body stretch. “And Marsha? You still sure you want to face the media on this one?”

She gave you a humoring smile, “Of course. There’s no way I’m letting you deal with reporters on top of everything else. I got this.”

* * *

Almost out of reflex you found yourself walking up the familiar steps to the Avengers’ kitchen for a quick lunch before the press conference. Bucky and Sam were both sitting at the large table, making their way through a mountain of fajita meats, veggies, and fresh corn tortillas. They both gave you subdued smiles as you plopped unceremoniously into the empty chair across from them.

“I suppose there’s no news?” You asked as you began piling too much guacamole onto a tortilla.

Sam, without hesitating, said, “If there were any real news on Steve, I’d have told you already. There might be something coming down the pipe later today, but no promises.”

You gave Sam a strained but grateful smile before you took a sloppy bite of your fajita. 

“Yall doin’ okay? I won’t lie, everyone looked like shit at the meeting yesterday,” you said, deflecting from your own fraught emotions slightly, not wishing to dwell on the lack of any progress.

“Believe me when I say that we’ve been through worse missions.” Sam continued, and you nodded your head, not daring to inquire on _that_ front. “What about you? You holding up?”

You didn’t have it in you to lie, so, wiping your mouth on a napkin, you shrugged your shoulders helplessly, “Not really. But I know he’s got to be out there, somewhere. So I’m not giving up yet. But I can’t for the life of me understand why he hasn’t contacted anyone, unless…”

“Hey. We’re gonna find him, okay?” Sam squared you with a piercing look. You couldn’t help but notice that Bucky looked less than convinced, but you nodded and forced a smile for Sam.

As you chewed a rather large bite, you finally took a chance to look around the oddly quiet kitchen. “Where is everyone?” You asked through mouthful of charro beans.

“Nat, Clint, and Wanda are following a lead, and Tony’s…somewhere.” Bucky mumbled as he made another fajita for himself. At your questioning look, he continued, “Supposedly there’s a ring of Castillo’s gang, or gang adjacent, here in New York. So they’re setting an ambush at the railyards over in Newark, posing as a potential buyers for a syndicate out of Chicago.”

As you let the news mull in your mind, Sam added, “So hopefully we can get some good intel out of least one of them.” The outcome of this mission must have been the ‘real news’ he had alluded to earlier, and you could only hope that it would prove fruitful.

* * *

You were going to have to get Marsha a full treatment at a day spa for her birthday, one of those places where the masseuse walked across your back to get out all the kinks and then wrapped you in mud or seaweed or some such thing to release ‘toxins.’ Or maybe, you mused from your position on the side of the room, you could just get her a few bottles of something expensive and alcoholic. Regardless, it was going to have to be something nice to make up for the absolute grilling she was receiving from the room full of journalists at the moment. And right now, dwelling on birthday presents was giving you far less anxiety than dwelling on Steve’s absence or the questions from reporters that hit a little too close to your already frail heart.

To be fair, Captain America going MIA was no small news story, and the reporters had every right to be pointed and unflinching in their questioning. But on the other hand, Marsha was just a PR rep, and, therefore, not in any way responsible for Captain America’s well-being as several press members had seemed to imply in their indignant tones of voice and utterances of ‘how could this have happened?’

But through it all, Marsha persevered and flagged down another raised hand.

“What more can you tell us about this weapons dealer? What motives would he have for perhaps imprisoning or killing Captain Rogers?” Asked one of the journalists from NPR as you suppressed a flinch.

“As I’ve said before, there is no evidence that Captain Rogers has been taken prisoner or killed. In fact, we have every right to believe that if he were, Castillo’s operatives would not likely be keeping it secret from us or the press. So I repeat, there is no indication that he has been harmed or killed. And any intel we have on Rogers’ location or status is strictly classified until this situation can be resolved.” Marsha took a long, slow sip of water, and you couldn’t be sure if it was from genuine thirst or as a power move, showing them that she was the one controlling the conversation right now. Probably the latter. 

“As for Castillo,” she continued, “we know that he escaped from Catalonia to Argentina in the early 2000s after becoming involved with some low-level members of a since dissolved crime syndicate. Once in South America, he acted as a political dissident for a number of years and became involved with a number of gangs because of his numerous connections to European black markets and the booming, underground weapons trade. Over the last decade he has cultivated a large and loyal following, placing him at the top of a large and powerful weapons ring. After several altercations with the Avengers about a year ago, he was rumored to have moved his base of operations from La Plata, Argentina to São Paulo, Brazil.”

As she took a breath and scoped out the crowd, the incessant clicking of camera lenses and the scratching of pens and pencils filled the silence.

After fielding a few more practical questions from some smaller media outlets, she called on one of the reporters from Fox News.

“Thank you, this question is actually for your superior,” he began, looking directly at you, and you immediately felt your hackles raise at that wording. Nevertheless, you nodded and stepped up to the podium, adjusting the mic to your height.

“It’s been rumored for some time that you and Captain Rogers are dating. Given that, are we really supposed to believe that he hasn’t contacted you in any way, either within or outside of official channels? That you really don’t have any information on his whereabouts or wellbeing? Can you give us a comment?”

You felt both icy dread flood your senses simultaneously as an irate fire burned through your veins. You could feel your cheeks and throat heat up with anger. You and Steve had never attempted to hide your relationship, but neither had you or he ever made an official statement on it. And neither of you were much for large crowds or high profile restaurants or bars, which had usually relegated any relationship rumors to gossip mags and less reputable media outlets with nothing more than questionable cell phone photos to cite. Nonetheless, the rumors were out there.

But the gall of this man to expect you to not only confirm or deny any relationship with Steve in a press conference about his disappearance, but to also have insinuated that you might have withheld information from the Avengers was beyond the pale.

You licked your lips with apparent irritation, before lightly clearing your throat, avoiding the insinuations altogether. “As my _colleague_ has stated multiple times already, this is an ongoing mission and investigation. Any information regarding Captain Rogers’ location will not be released to the press at this time.”

The reporter looked like he was gearing up to press further, but before he could get the chance, Marsha was sidling up next to you with a comforting hand on your shoulder and calling on an independent journalist standing near the back of the room. 

You schooled your face to be as neutral as manageable, but inside you were screaming with anger, frustration, and panic. As you retook your spot next to Matt, he gave you what you supposed was a comforting nudge with his shoulder, but all you could do was nod dully at him. 

For you at least, the rest of the press conference passed in a blur of voices and faces, all drowned out by the now clear and present absence of Steve, the dull ache in your chest and gut, the chill that ran through every vein.

And somewhere outside of Caracas, in a gilded hotel room, a man watched the press conference with a smile, the light of his computer screen reflecting off his gold tooth as he opened a new tab and typed your name into the search bar.

* * *

Tony practically threatened to have Happy sling you over his shoulder and drive you home before you finally gave in and left directly after the press conference, taking up his offer of a free ride. Somehow hopping on the subway after your face had been plastered on every news station in America seemed overwhelming and ill advised. 

And when you finally made it up to your apartment at a little after four, Douglass bounded up to you squawking and crying for food as he always did.

“You little turd, I’m home early. So you’re gonna have to wait two hours before it’s dinner time,” you tutted at him as he threatened to trip you, incessantly weaving between your feet. Douglass, apparently, seemed disagree with your proposed meal plan. You sighed affectionately, knowing you must’ve had ‘jackass’ printed across your forehead, and called in an order for Thai food. If Douglass was going to inevitably eat early, why then couldn’t you?

* * *

The next few days passed by at an impressive clip, and it was Friday before you knew where the week had gone. You’d have thought that the bad news would have slowed things down, made time creep by one drop at a time, but the flurry of activity that followed the announcement of Steve’s disappearance had caused an avalanche of shit to fall on your department—and therefore your lap—keeping your mind otherwise occupied by something other than the ticking of the clock.

Matt, as it turned out, despite his numerous hang-ups in older office technology, was a whiz at managing social media accounts, and by the end of the week, you had given him almost a free license to respond to comments and posts on the official Avengers’ accounts on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and whatever the fuck else people were using these days.

Meanwhile, you and Marsha were putting in double time to keep up with and dealing with the mini fires and false rumors that sprang up and went out in the daily news cycles on both the radio and TV.

_No, Captain Rogers had not been blown up in a meth lab and was now living as a junkie on the streets._

_No, there was no evidence to suggest that Captain Rogers had been turned into a werewolf._

_No, Captain Rogers had not been sucked into a time vortex back to the Revolutionary War, inspiring the creation of the American flag._

_No, Captain Rogers had not pulled a Mrs. Doubtfire and dressed up as an old lady with Bucky Barnes to go break into Germany. Why would he need to break into Germany? They’re a close ally? Also, Bucky’s right here. Ask him yourself._

And on and on it went. Luckily for you, only two tabloid interviewers had dared to ask you for personal statements on “Steve’s” disappearance, which would have also been implicit confirmations of your relationship. You were glad Marsha had been with you both times, or you might have taken a leaf out of Steve’s book, and done something impulsive like punching them square in the jaw to release your pent up anger and anxiety, both of which were becoming constant and blurred states of being for you.

So Friday afternoon when you were called in to watch the interrogation of one of the associates of Castillo apprehended by Natasha, Clint, and Wanda, you were eager for a change of pace and almost gladly followed Bucky to what he promised would be a great stress relief. Secretly, you hoped you’d get to see some good cop/bad cop action and maybe a good beat down. Or maybe that was just the rage and anxiety talking.

By the time you and Bucky joined Tony, Sam, and Rhodey in the slightly darkened observation room with several monitors displaying the interrogation, Clint and Natasha were clearly well underway with questioning the suspect.

The man in question, one Freddie Galvan of Jersey City, seemed to be a caricature of villainy, replete with facial scars and tattoos on top of his generally surly demeanor, more closely resembling one of Dr. Evil’s henchmen than an actual bona fide criminal.

And as you were finally given a glimpse into the process that Clint and Natasha used to work over a suspect, you felt in your core an almost sinister sense of enjoyment at watching him become increasingly distressed. You weren’t proud of that feeling, but at that moment, all you saw was an obstacle in the way of Steve’s health and wellbeing, in the way of your happiness.

Natasha was ruthless and relentless in her questioning, and even though Galvan was clearly a man hardened by a life of crime and violence and seemed to have some resistance to her interrogation techniques, he was beginning to visibly sweat and looked just about ready to piss himself. To make matters worse for the guy, his increasingly panicked appeals to Clint’s reason were falling on deaf ears…literally. Clint had turned off his hearing aids and was blissfully and obliviously playing Candy Crush on his phone.

Between Natasha’s hyperattentive concentration and Clint’s utter lack of recognition, Galvan was finally on the verge of cracking. 

“Look, if you’re not going to tell me about your rivals, then maybe you can tell me why it is that you and your associates have been running scared the last month,” Natasha asked, as always her calm voice belying her intense scrutiny.

Galvan’s head jerked up from the table in shock at her words, and Natasha, seeing his obvious reaction smiled slyly.

“Struck a nerve there, did I? And don’t bother trying to deny it,” she insisted as Galvan began to shake his head. “Something’s got Castillo and your lot spooked. Your whole syndicate has been scattering faster than a nest of cockroaches under a fluorescent light. Now I know that I can be intimidating, clearly,” she gestured to his entire person with a smirk, “But not even I can make someone as powerful as Castillo that scared.”

She fixed him with one of her looks that could have just as easily been comforting as it was terrifying. “So who is it then? The boogeyman?”

At that, Galvan broke. “Not a boogeyman,” he snapped reflexively, “more like an angel of death.”

And just like that, he had finally broken. Even Clint noticed the almost electric charge in the air, and subtly turned his hearing aids back on.

With a smirk, clearly unaffected by Galvan’s outburst, Natasha practically purred, “I’m listening.”

He gulped a few times, looking around his surroundings, his eyes darting about, weighing his options as if fearful that his criminal colleagues might have eyes and ears in the room.

“We don’t know who he works for, if anyone, but he’s been taking out our cells one by one. At first we thought he might have been your Punisher, but he works differently, no evidence, no calling card, no white skull on his chest,” Galvan gave an involuntary shiver. “Late night poker games, wiped out. Bosses out on the town with girlfriends and hookers, gone. Vatos hocking .22s on the street, waking up in jail. You feel?”

You felt the hair on the back of your neck rise as a chill went through you.

“How long?” Natasha asked quietly.

“It started about a, uh,” Galvan hesitated nervously, “about a month ago. No one can track him down, so Boss went into hiding, and the rest of us have been keeping low.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed slightly, “How do you know there’s only one and that it’s a he? What if it’s a she or a they?”

“Well, he hasn’t killed the hookers or the girlfriends, has he? Tells them they haven’t crossed him yet and sends them to the police with enough money to get on the next plane out of the country. Of course you know we got cops on the payroll who’ve told us as much. It’s one man, every time.”

Clint finally joined in, “And have the ‘hookers and girlfriends’ given anyone a physical description?”

Galvan shakes his head like it should be obvious, “They’re all different. Long hair, short hair, no hair, dark hair, light hair, mustache, beard, shaved, light skinned, dark skinned. The only thing that stays the same is that he’s bigger than a brick shithouse.”

Clint and Natasha seemed to think this over, having some sort of silent conversation or argument that consisted of varying facial expressions. Meanwhile, you were doing the mental math. One man, big and strong, one month…Could it…?

In the end Natasha seemed to ask the only other important question she Galvan could answer. “How many cells has your boogeyman taken out and where?”

Galvan grimaced and shuddered, “At least 35 of our men have been killed or locked up in a way that sticks, and he keeps following a direct line behind Castillo’s retreat.”

“Which is where?” Clint asked impatiently, still tapping on the game on his phone.

“Castillo’s mostly stayed in the smaller ports in Brazil, but this past week, he changed his MO.”

“Whenever you feel like elaborating,” Natasha smirked impatiently.

Galvan finally allowed himself to look a little smug behind the nerves, “He’s been heading in a straight line north, toward New York.”

* * *

As you busied yourself, saving your documents and closing windows, you weren’t surprised when you saw a flash of red in your periphery.

“Hey, Nat. What’s up?” You aimed for a calm and cool tone.

She smirked, but it was devoid of her usual sarcasm. “Funny. Was gonna ask you the same thing.”

You rolled your eyes warmly, “I’m going home, that’s what’s up.”

Natasha squared you with one of her looks, not dissimilar to the ones she’d used earlier on Freddie Galvan.

You tried not to squirm as you pressed the power button on your computer monitor, until you finally broke. “Clearly you want to say something, so just say it.”

“We think you should stay at the tower this weekend. You already have access to Steve’s quarters, so you can stay there.” 

She said it so nonchalantly, that you almost agreed with her on reflex. Giving your head a shake to clear it, you pushed back.

“What about Douglass? Also, I’ve got a fridge full of food that could go bad over the weekend,” you huffed as you stowed your tablet in your bag. “And what happens when this weekend turns into a week, or two? I can’t just stay here. Besides what’s the big deal about me going home?”

Natasha smirked affectionately. “Of course you can. You can go get Douglass and whatever else you may need and come back. And the big deal is Castillo making a beeline for New York, that’s what, and I really don’t think you want to elaborate further on that.” She softened her tone a little, “Look, we’re worried about you. I’m worried about you. You’ve been cooped up alone for the past month, and things went from intense to ridiculous pretty quick this week. The tower’s safer. Plus, you’ll have us to be around instead of just Douglass.”

You almost gave in at that tender sentiment, but damn it you liked your privacy, and you just wanted to go home and veg out after a long and objectively shitty week. Packing up for the foreseeable future was not on that agenda.

“Ok first off, Douglass is way better company than any of you lousy bastards,” you grumbled.

“Noted,” Natasha smiled.

“So, what? I should just go pack my stuff, somehow make onto the subway with all that crap and then cart it the two blocks up to the tower? On a Friday night?” You responded petulantly.

Natasha looked smug. “Of course not. Sam’ll drive you. Tony just wanted me to ask because he knew you wouldn’t be able to say no to me.”

You scoffed, “You got a lot of confidence there, Romanoff.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Fuckin hell. Yeah sure. Keep your pants on, but I’ll have you know I am not carting that litter box here, so you need to go get a new one for Douglass,” you grumbled as you hoisted your bag onto your shoulder.

“Tony bought one this morning,” Natasha smiled, her curls bouncing behind her as she swept out of your office without another word.

“Goddammit,” you muttered into the darkness of your empty office.

Thirty minutes of terrible traffic later, you and Sam were pulling up to a loading zone near your apartment building.

“Ok, so how do we want to do this? I’ll get the kitchen and you get the bedroom?” Sam began.

You held up a hand, and Sam went silent. “Let me stop you there, Sam. I love all of you, you included. You understand that, right?”

Somewhat confused, Sam hesitated before realizing you were expecting a response. “Right.”

“Good, then please don’t take it personally when I say that hell will freeze over before I let any of you into my apartment.” You ignored his laughably offended expression as you continued. “It’s a sacred space untouched by work or coworkers, Steve, obviously being an exception. All I need is a weekend bag, Douglass, and his food. I can just put my leftovers from the fridge into my freezer. Easy peasy.”

Sam started to argue, “But Y/N, what if—” 

“What?” You interrupted, “I get why you all want to me stay at the Tower, but I’m fine. Let me just get my shit in peace, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam grumbled, clearly offended that he had been banned from your apartment. 

“I’ll be down in like ten minutes,” you said, smugly patting his cheek before he batted your hand away.

As you climbed the four flights of stairs to your floor, cursing every step and heaving breath you took, you started making a mental agenda for yourself. You would feed Douglass as soon as you got into your apartment so that he could eat while you packed, since he would probably be loath to eat in the new surroundings of Steve’s quarters. You would need to make sure to close down your bedroom and bathroom doors as soon as possible, closing off most potential hiding places for when Douglass heard the sound of his travel bag and inevitably went running. You needed PJs, three pairs of socks and underwear, a couple shirts…

By the time you were turning your keys in the deadbolt, you had a pretty solid plan and packing list in your head.

But when you stepped into your apartment, something was…off.

Douglass wasn’t at the door, wasn’t tripping you up begging for his dinner. 

“Douglass?” You called, making a few kissy noises to see if he was just asleep. But he didn’t come. 

“Douglass? Where’s my little cherub?” You called again, setting your bag down on the entry table.

And then you caught a flash of grey fur from under the TV stand in the corner, as his tail flicked with apparent agitation. You headed into the living room and crouched down, your cheek to the ground, to get a better look at him crammed under the narrow space.

“Hey sweetie, whatcha doin’ down there,” you cooed as comfortingly as possible. 

What the hell was up with your cat? You’d never seen him hide like this before, not when you vacuumed, not when you got out his nail clippers, not even when he’d been sicker than hell from eating that chicken bone a couple years back.

You clicked your tongue and kissed a few times to try and entice him out, but he only responded with a low rumbling growl that you had never heard before, one that sent a wave of ice into your veins and made goosebumps raise up on your skin. 

“Douglass,” you said more firmly. He responded with another growl.

And that’s when you felt it more than you heard it. You weren’t alone in your apartment.

From somewhere behind you, an unfamiliar male voice let out an impatient sigh.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I giggled like a jackass when I finished this chapter. But don’t worry, I’d never leave yall with a bad ending, and Douglass is safe, Douglass is ok, Douglass will be fine and not harmed in any fashion whatsoever.....but I cannot promise the same for you, dear reader....ahahaha.
> 
> Lol, and thank you [Screen Rant](https://screenrant.com/15-most-wtf-things-captain-america-has-done/) for giving me the ideas for those silly media rumors.
> 
> I will _**TRY**_ to get the next part out sooner....but I’m also a lazy bastard, so...  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once in his damned life, Steve had followed all the rules, and look where that got him: cover blown, forced to go off the grid, hunting down arms dealers. And after all that, Castillo had remained one step ahead of him at every turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is mostly from Steve’s perspective, so I tried to emulate his voice, I hope? I actually originally wrote this in 1st person POV, but I didn’t like the way it felt, so hopefully the narrator’s voice works...
> 
> BTW, my face claim for Castillo is [Eduardo Noriega](https://www.lavanguardia.com/r/GODO/LV/p3/WebSite/Imagenes/2015/04/22/Recortada/LV_20150422_LV_FOTOS_D_54430791937-992x558@LaVanguardia-Web.jpg). He’s got the perfect blend of dashingly handsome and might murder you and hide your body in his basement (yes, that’s a reference).

It wasn’t Steve’s fault. No, really. It wasn’t.

For once, he’d been following all the rules and doing what he was told. He hadn’t behaved recklessly or unnecessarily risked bodily harm for once in his damn life. In fact, this time around, he’d done everything by the book, followed all the rules to the letter, and in general behaved himself.

Pfft. And look how well that had paid off. 

Because then his mission partner, Delia, had gone and held a gun to his head, right in the middle of their first meeting with Castillo’s men at some shady shipping yard in São Paulo.

Apparently, her roots in South America went deeper than her hometown in back La Plata. Apparently, she’d had longstanding ties to a crime family right there in Argentina, and this family had recently located to Brazil—oh yeah, and that family’s name was fucking Castillo. And _apparently_ , she had played everyone at the Avengers tower for saps, somehow beat Friday’s background checks, and had been feeding intel to Castillo’s men for years, including, but not limited to, the mission the year before that had ended with Steve being small enough to fit in a bread box.

Yeah, fat lotta good playing by the rules had done him.

So what was Steve supposed to do? Play it cool? Just let Castillo’s men take him hostage and probably torture him for information? Let them use him as a bargaining chip to undermine the Avengers and international security? Let them kill him even?

Fuck no.

And besides, if he was slated to die at the hands of Castillo’s men, he sure as shit wasn’t going to go down alone.

So naturally, he grabbed a 7-second grenade off of the toolbelt of one Castillo’s men, pulled the pin, released the lever, and threw the fucker in the air at just the right height that it would detonate by the time it made it back down to earth.

Sure, it had earned him a couple bullet holes in his arm and stomach. Sure, he’d also gotten hit by some of the shrapnel, but give him a break, it’s not like he had his shield with him.

And you know what? In the ensuing chaos of the grenade blast, he’d been able to throw himself off the pier and swim to relative safety.

Once he was certain that there were no trackers on him and that he wasn’t being tailed, he booked it to a less than reputable veterinarian whom he’d heard of through some of his contacts—one that was known for her discretion—and got the bullets and shrapnel removed.

He then scanned the face of a sleeping homeless man on the corner near the office and uploaded it onto his photostatic veil, leaving a chunk of cash in his jacket pocket. And after that, he bought a backpack style cymbal case that was big enough for his shield and went and got said shield from his now heavily surveilled motel room before taking yet another new face and dropping completely off the grid.

After all, if Delia, whom all the Avengers thought they had known, trusted, and even befriended had been a mole, then who could he actually trust? She had managed to get around Tony’s AI during her background checks, so what if she had ways of monitoring communications in and out of the tower? And if there was one thing Steve wasn’t, it was an idiot. If there had been one mole, then for all he knew there was a whole nest of them.

What was the old saying? Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me. Well, Steve wasn’t getting fooled again.

No it was best for Steve to sort this shit out on his own and leave everyone in New York out of it, not least of all, you.

And really, seriously, none of this was his fault…okay, maybe he could have sent Tony letter or a fax or something. Surely, Castillo wouldn’t be monitoring the fax machines, right? Nah, it was better to not risk it.

So even though it was less than ideal, Steve was determined to stay off of everyone and anyone’s radar—be it the Avengers’, Shield’s, fucking Castillo’s, or, regrettably, yours—while he conducted his own private investigations and ops.

His only setback was that he was in Brazil and didn’t speak a lick of Portuguese. He’d had a smattering of Italian from the war, and with that he’d been able to somewhat muddle his way through basic communications with shopkeepers in the markets and managers at motels and inns that rented by the hour.

And every day, he scanned a new face of some unsuspecting man, stealing his appearance and uploading it to his photostatic veil. It made him feel less like a soldier or a spy and more like one of those parasitic, body-snatching aliens from that god awful 90s movie you’d made him watch over Halloween, but which you had insisted was the peak of sci-fi horror and “cinematic poetry.”

And so like a Winter Soldier of justice, rather than Hydra, he had spent the last month tracking down and systematically wiping out Castillo’s men. His only regret was that he had yet to catch up to Castillo himself, who always seemed to be one or two steps ahead of Steve.

Of course, he wasn’t ruthless or unreasonable in his killing or meting of justice. He spared the wives and girlfriends—well the ones who deserved to be spared—and jailed the lower level gangsters who had yet to achieve the brutality of their leader and who oftentimes were really just as much the victims of Castillo as they were accomplices. But for the bosses and leaders, well, it was nothing less than they deserved, what with the blood of literally thousands of innocent lives staining their hands.

And the way Steve saw it, Castillo could only run for so long before his luck ran out, and sure enough, he was starting to get sloppy. Castillo was headed in an overall northward direction, but just the week previously, he had attempted to lose his pursuer in the northernmost jungles of Brazil. The villagers in the rural areas held little allegiance to some gun salesman from the cities, and it was comically easy to track Castillo based on their comments.

Steve had been so close, so damned close to catching Castillo there, but then he’d gone and stepped on a damn viper and passed out pretty soon after stumbling into a small fishing village. The inhabitants there took pity on him and cared for him, calling the snake that had bitten him a surucucú. Most likely due to the serum running through his veins, he managed to sleep off the venom like a damn honey badger that had been bitten by a cobra despite the fact that the villagers hadn’t had any antivenom to give him. By the time Steve could eat without vomiting and stand without falling right back over, he’d lost four days.

But once Castillo had been cornered in Venezuela, rather than continuing up Central America and into Mexico, the bastard caught a flight on a chartered jet to Florida, and Steve only knew this because he had bribed one of the airport ground crew for information. 

He had also scanned his face and was currently using it to catch a flight of his own to Cuba and from there a small chartered flight to Miami…the only problem was that he had no fucking clue how he was going to avoid the customs and border agents when the damn plane landed. He’d probably have to do something illegal, not that he was a stranger to bending the law to suit his principles. And it wasn’t like this was for evil ends. It was serving justice damn it, so really, it was completely warranted.

In fact, avoiding the customs agents at the Miami airport had been stupidly easy. The chartered jet was too small to land in the terminals, so it parked on an airstrip where the passengers should have been bused into the building by airport staff. But when Steve began descending the stairs from the jet, he pretended to miss a step and fell down the stairs, taking everyone in front of him down along the way. Once on the ground, he used the ensuing confusion to slip behind the stairs, under the jet, and booked it for the perimeter fences. 

By the time anyone on the ground realized what had happened, Steve was already scaling the fence. And by the time they even got close enough to shoot him, he was already sprinting across the highway that ran alongside the airport, dodging cars and semi-trucks alike. See? Stupidly easy, well for a super soldier at any rate.

It didn’t take long for him to scan a new face and make his way to some of the sketchier parts of Miami. And it didn’t take long for him to find someone who knew someone who once did business with a guy who knew where one of Castillo’s gangs liked to drink. And after following that wild goose chase, at a little after 5:00 in the evening he finally tracked down one of the drivers for the area bosses, Hector. 

“Look kid, I’m not gonna ask you again. Where is Castillo headed?” Steve growled, holding Hector above the ground by his shirt collar against the graffitied concrete wall.

“Hey man,” Hector whined indignantly, “I got nothin’ to say to you.”

Steve didn’t have time for this. Castillo had made a drastic move. Clearly he was up to something, and Steve needed to know what, and needed to know now.

“You’ve got two options here, kid. You tell me nothing, and I’ll go tell your bosses that I saw you walking out of the FBI field office looking smug as shit. Or you tell me something useful, and I’ll let the cops deal with you instead.”

Hector looked ready to murder Steve or cry, probably both.

“No cops, please, no cops. You think they’ll just go after me? They’ll kill my family. And I need this job. My grandma’s on dialysis, and I’m the one who pays for that. She needs this money, man. Please.”

That gave Steve pause. Sure it could have been a line of bullshit, but there was a desperation flashing in Hector’s eyes that looked genuine.

“Okay, new deal,” Steve began, hoping that the face on his veil looked as menacing as he needed it to, “You tell me what you know, and I’ll get you protection from the gang. But only if you tell me everything. Then you lay low, and stay out of crime for good.”

“Seriously, how the fuck?” Hector spat, “Castillo’s not some pissant gangbanger. He’s like the motherfucking godfather. You can’t offer me shit.”

“Believe me, the godfather is about to go down. I’ll be seeing to that personally. Now are you gonna talk, or do you need to get your affairs in order before I go tell your bosses about you spilling to the FBI?”

Hector just grunted and futilely fought against Steve’s vicelike grip. It took a few more back and forths before he finally broke.

“Alright, alright, man. Put me down, and I’ll talk. I swear,” Hector all but squealed. “But you better fucking be right about protecting my family. I swear to god, man.”

Steve lowered Hector to the ground, but kept a firm hold on his shoulders, nodding in agreement. 

“Okay, so you know Castillo’s got it out for Captain America, right?” Hector began, and Steve nodded his head again. “Well, there’s been this guy taking out a lot of bosses down in Brazil, and funny enough he showed up right after Cap gave Castillo the slip at some sting or undercover op or whatever.”

Steve had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smirking as Hector spoke.

“So, Castillo’s thinking that this vigilante is Captain America, you feel, but Cap dropped off the face of the earth. None of Castillo’s guys on the inside have heard from him, so no one knows where he is, not even his own team. So anyway, a few days back, the Avengers finally revealed to the media that ol’ Cap had gone missing on a mission to Brazil to catch Castillo, and during that press conference, some cabrón from Fox fucking outs his girl right there on TV.”

Icy dread and desperation suddenly sank into the pit of Steve’s stomach, and he was glad his fingers were dug into Hector’s shoulders because otherwise, he was sure they would be shaking.

“This vigilante has been fucking up shipments and put the whole organization in chaos. So the way Castillo sees it, is an eye for an eye. He left for New York today, caught a flight just a few hours ago.”

Steve had only experienced true tunnel vision twice before in his life, where literally everything peripheral faded to black and his eyes focused on a single point of dread. The first time was when his mother, weak and pale in the hospital that smelled of sickness and death, inhaled a scratchy and strained breath for the last time. And then again when he hadn’t reached Bucky in time and his hand still gripping the broken railing fell down, down, down, and Steve could see nothing around him, nothing but the unadulterated terror on Bucky’s face as it fell from view. 

And now, standing in an alleyway that smelled of piss and garbage, all he could see was your face in his mind’s eye, your smile, your eyes, you.

“Let up man, jesus!” Hector called out in pain under Steve’s tightening grasp. 

Steve shook himself out of what would have become a panic attack. No, that would not do right now. He couldn’t afford that. 

He had been right; there were more informants beside Delia working within Avengers tower. So he reached into his pocket, pulled out his newest burner phone, and dialed the one person he could risk trusting right now. 

“You better have a damn good reason for interrupting my Friday evening, Rogers,” came the clipped voice of Fury. Steve didn’t even want to know how Fury knew it was him calling from an unknown number. 

“I need a jet right now. Deep cover. I trust you can trace my phone?”

There was a palpable pause before Fury responded as if there were nothing out of the ordinary with Steve’s request, “There’s a vacant lot two blocks east of your location. Be there, and for god’s sake, Rogers, ditch the phone.”

And just like that, the line went dead.

Meanwhile, Hector was still looking scared and slightly nauseated, so Steve fished a pen and paper out of his makeshift shield case, and hastily scribbled down an address.

“This is a safehouse,” he said, holding up the paper to Hector, pulling it back when he reached for it. “Memorize this, and take your family there. There will be a duffel bag in the hall closet. Inside it will be a phone with one phone number in it. Call it, tell them your name, and wait. Your life of crime is over, earn it.”

After Hector timidly nodded his head, Steve grabbed the lighter from Hector’s shirt pocket and lit the paper on fire.

“Go,” Steve growled, and Hector all but sprinted out of the alley. 

Steve swallowed down the rising nausea and panic that was threatening to take root in him. He was the reason your life was in danger, but he was also the only one right now who could save you. If he panicked and lost control of himself, he might as well go buy your tombstone right then and there. 

So with Natasha’s words echoing in his mind—‘First rule of going on the run is don't run; walk’—Steve walked the two blocks to the empty lot. 

Within minutes, he heard the low hum of a quinjet, and not long after that he was stepping on board, ready to take the wheel from whatever agent Fury had sent.

Maria Hill, however, was the agent at the wheel, who took one look at Steve and then at the cymbal case on his back, and said, “Rogers. You’ve made it clear that we’re on a tight schedule. Secure the door, take off that ridiculous veil, and stop looking at me like that.”

Steve was glad that she was taking over as it would allow him at least a good hour to panic, calm down, and then strategize. Or maybe strategize and then panic and calm down. Either way, he was glad to finally, for the first time in over a month, sit down and let someone else take the reins. 

“Where to?” She asked as the jet lifted off.

“Queens. We’ll need to land as close to Y/N’s building as we can.” Steve responded almost mechanically, before adding, “And do you think we can get a secure line to Tony? One that couldn’t be intercepted by say a bunch of moles that have been feeding intel to Castillo for past couple years?”

Maria didn’t ask any questions. She just responded without hesitation, “Of course. And that makes sense. We’ve been looking for leaks for the past month, but they haven’t been getting intel from hacking Tony’s system, no one is that smart, except for maybe Natasha. They were probably getting it through good old fashioned spying and office gossip. I’ll open a channel now.”

Steve sunk back in his seat behind the cockpit, willing the knot of dread that threatened to suffocate him to leave his throat, as an endless chorus of guilt and your name rang in his ears in time with the ringing on the other end of the line.

“Maria,” Steve could have almost cried at hearing Tony’s voice, “Whatcha got for me?” 

“Tony,” Steve’s voice was low, worry and weariness tinting his tone.

Just as there had been when Steve called Fury, there was a moment of pause on the other end, before Tony, ever unflappable, shot back, “Cap, I gotta say I don’t know if I want to kiss you or kill you, but damn I’ll bet your ears have been burning nonstop for, oh I dunno, the past fifty-two days.”

Any other time, Steve would have laughed and let Tony ramble and been glad to do so. But Hector said that Castillo had left on a plane several hours previously, left to go find and kidnap—

“Tony, Y/N is in danger. Castillo is coming for her,” Steve could hear his own voice cracking as he spoke, “He left on a private jet this afternoon. He could be in Queens already.”

Tony didn’t miss a beat, “We’ll be on our way over there now. But, don’t worry, Cap. I sent Sam home with her to pack some things. She was going to spend the weekend at the tower. They’re probably already on their way back in god awful rush-hour traffic. She’ll be fine.” Even as Tony spoke at his usual accelerated clip, Steve could hear how his manic speech was covering for what could only be rising panic. 

“But if we can intercept Castillo or his men breaking into Y/N’s place with weapons, we’ll have enough to put in him jail for long enough to dig evidence that will make it stick. Just get here as soon as you can, so hopefully Maria’s flying and not you. I’ll call with any news.”

“Thanks, Tony.” That was all Steve could get out, even though he wanted to say more. _Thanks for looking out for her when I couldn’t. Thanks for thinking one step ahead. Thank you for doing and not asking dumb questions._

“Sure thing, Steve.” And with that the line went silent. And Steve was left with nothing to do but sit, wait, and hope that Tony was right about Maria being a faster flyer than he. 

But Sam was with you. Sam who had thrown himself into the middle of fight between Shield and Hydra after knowing Steve for a matter of days. Sam who had then willingly helped Steve track down Bucky, knowing full well that he was risking his life every time. Sam who always stuck with Steve through thick and thin. If Sam was with you, then Steve could let that knot in his throat unravel slightly, breath just a little easier. 

Sure, that only freed up space for a wave of guilt to crash through at leaving you and the team in the lurch for the past month. Of course had been secure ways to reach his team, of course. So why had he ignored comment sense and waited until today to be brave enough to dial Fury? 

Okay, maybe part of this was his fault. Just a tad though.

* * *

By the time the quinjet landed, Steve was practically in hysterics, and he all but leaped off the ramp before sprinting the four blocks to your apartment building. Literally everything around him was a confused, distressed blur as his heart beat at an uncomfortable clip.

After Tony had called back with the news, it felt like the little hope he’d allowed himself to entertain was making the fall feel that much harder. It had been more than seventy years since he’d felt faint. Not even when he’d been deserumed the previous year had he felt this sickly sweet sensation of nausea and giddiness that was now making the ground feel unsteady beneath him.

When he got to your building a few short minutes later, with Maria not far behind, he found Rhodey in the entryway of the building dealing with a few police officers. He flew past them and up the stairs to your apartment.

He had climbed those stair so many times that he could probably find his way to your door in his sleep. But now, as the axis of his world went further and further off kilter, he felt lost and disoriented as he stumbled down the hall to your door.

He barely registered Clint standing outside with a clearly distressed Douglass struggling warily in his arms, calmly talking to your neighbors who often watched Douglass on your business trips.

And when stepped over the threshold, it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees and throwing up. 

It was clear that you and Sam had not gone down without a fight. Your coffee table had been broken as it was thrown to the side, smashing into your television set. 

Above that and within the imprint of a body thrown into the drywall was the shattered glass in a picture frame that Bucky had given you for your birthday, a memento of the event that brought you and Steve together, and a moment that he had captured on his phone with the ease of a paparazzo. Steve could almost make out his small bony frame next to yours as you both piled food onto plates before an unfortunate game of pictionary. Even amidst the terror that was making it hard to stand and even harder to breathe, he almost couldn’t help the smile that tugged on his lips at the memory.

His eyes drifted to the couch cushions on the floor, where your throw rug was rumpled and cast aside. And it wasn’t long before his attention focused on the large puddle of blood that was coagulating and soaking into your beige carpeting. He couldn’t look away, even as the floor tilted further and further out of balance and the sickly tang of copper hit his nose.

“Cap,” Tony’s voice somehow broke through the fog that had descended on Steve. “I know it looks bad, but we don’t know whose blood that even is.”

Steve nodded his numbly, like his body was on autopilot just following commands from something reflexive and of not his own conscious will.

“Friday’s hacking every traffic camera in the city,” Tony said, trying to catch Steve’s gaze, which was still fixated on the blood. “We’ll find them, both of them. Castillo’s good, but I’m better, _we_ are better.”

Again, Steve nodded without conviction, struck mute by realization of just how badly this could turn out, as Tony put a steadying hand on his shoulder before turning back to his smart watch for any updates from Friday.

Steve turned his gaze to the kitchen where Bucky and Natasha were speaking rapid Russian under their breath, no doubt drawing on their considerable experience of criminal underworlds to devise a plan, but when Bucky caught the look in Steve’s eyes, he quickly ended the conversation with a curt nod to Natasha.

Bucky was nothing if not pithy with his words these days, a far cry from the chatty flirt Steve had known before the war, and right now was no exception. 

“Castillo and his men must be out of their fucking minds going after Sam and Y/N,” he said looking almost offended, “They really think they stand a chance against the Winter Soldier and the rest of us? Natalia’s out for blood.”

Steve wasn’t quite sure how he managed to find his voice. “They do have Chitauri weapons, Buck.” 

“Yeah, and we have a Hulk.”

Steve almost laughed even as he had to admit to himself that Bucky did have a bit of a point there, but reason didn’t matter, logic could go to hell, and thoughtful consideration of their options could get fucked.

All that Steve could fixate on was visions of you bleeding and scared in the back of a van or in a rusty warehouse with rats and roaches water dripping down the walls. Of Sam throwing himself in front of every threat, regardless of personal safety to save you. Of how he had probably been vastly outnumbered and how neither of you had stood a chance. Of how he had spent the last month as a ghost, hunting down Castillo instead of being here to protect you.

But before he could spiral deeper into such thoughts and feelings of guilt, all of which might have had him breaking down here in front of his teammates, Tony’s watch chirped with an alert. Every head turned toward the sound.

“What I am looking at, Friday,” Tony asked, holding his wrist up and away from his chest. 

Clint, having finished his conversation in the hall, had already edged into the apartment and adjusted his hearing aids to better hear the electronic voice of the AI, Douglass still in his arms, seeming slightly calmer than before.

“Incoming video message, sir. The number isn’t traceable, but the signal came from a container port in Jersey City. I’ll load the coordinates to your GPS.”

“Thanks, Friday. Play the video.”

From his watch, a holographic video display shot up, and they were greeted by a man, maybe in his forties, well dressed and with a lightly bearded face. It might have been a traditionally handsome face, might have been the face of a thoughtful and caring person for the way his dark eyes, which promised warmth, drew one in. 

But the face instead set Steve’s teeth on edge, made him taste the sharp tang of adrenaline that began to course through his body. If seeing your apartment in disarray and utterly empty of you had made him numb and mute with shock and dread, then seeing the face of Santino Castillo illuminated here in your space was filling him with a blind and urgent rage that made his limbs itch at their current idleness, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the scrappy days of his youth.

“Hello there Avengers, this message is for Captain Rogers. Are you there, my friend?” He spoke with a light accent as he mockingly craned his neck around, as if he could look for Steve through the video.

“I’ll just assume you are there, Captain,” he grinned in a poor imitation of genuine care as he spoke. “As you can well see by now, my men have taken your Miss Y/LN and the Falcon. They did put up quite a fight, but we took them nonetheless.

“My demands are quite simple, Captain Rogers. Your head for hers, and the promise of peace for my cartel for his.”

At that, the camera panned away from Castillo as he swept his arms out to display two bent over figures zip tied to metal chairs that were clearly bolted to the floor in what was no doubt an old shipping container. Though the image was dark from a lack of lighting, Steve and the others could clearly make out you to one side, your head hanging forward, and to your left was Sam, whose gray shirt had a shiny dark spot on his stomach just below his ribs.

Confirmation that it wasn’t your blood, but Sam’s, staining the carpeting did little to comfort Steve or, it would seem, the others, if Natasha’s sharp intake of breath and Bucky’s clenched fists were anything to go by.

“No doubt, your Tony Stark has traced where this message has originated. So, I’ll get to it. Come alone to the shipping yard in one hour. The trade will be simple. You walk in, they walk out. And then you Avengers, being one man down after all, may find it simpler to let my business operations continue unimpeded.

“And remember, come alone or the deal is off. I won’t hesitate to kill them. And I cannot promise it will be quick or painless.”

And with that the video feed cut.

Well if Castillo wanted to get Steve alone, then Steve would gladly oblige. In fact, at that moment, Steve wanted nothing more than to face down Castillo one on one and see who would win then. His fists were clenched as tightly as his jaw as he turned sharply on his heels and made to leave your apartment, as if he would walk the twenty some odd miles to Jersey City.

But luckily for Steve and everyone involved, a dark metal hand closed firmly around the back of his neck, stopping him in his tracks and holding him in place.

“Not so fast, Stevie. I think they’re a bit bigger than Flynn O'Shaughnessy and his cronies,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clearly trying for a light hearted scolding, a humorous allusion to a pre-teen Steve taking on bullies twice his size, but in the face of everything, it came out more as plaintive plea to reason. 

“Castillo is not going to win,” Bucky continued loud enough for the rest to hear, “We are objectively better fighters than him and his men. But we need to come up with a real plan first, not go walking in there in a blind rage, punching everything that moves. Yeah?”

Steve gritted his teeth, but nodded abruptly nonetheless, and Bucky slowly let go of his hold on Steve’s neck. 

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Tony began, his deflecting tone helping to diffuse the tense anxiety in the room, “Nat, call in Rhodey and Maria,” Tony said with an air that left little room for disagreement. 

“No need,” Rhodey called back, stepping into the apartment with Maria in tow. “The police are insistent that they be given the crime scene. I say let’s adjourn to the quinjet down the street and meet near the shipping yard. Sounds like we’re on a pretty tight schedule.”

“That settles it,” Tony said, closing the mask on his suit. “Friday, find us a quiet spot to land and send the coordinates to the quinjet.”

“You got it, boss.”

Once, again Steve found himself grateful that someone else was taking control of the situation, giving him the mental space to lose himself in his thoughts, his mind already combing through strategy after strategy.

* * *

There was a sharp pain in your neck as you opened your dry, scratchy eyes and struggled to pick your head up off your chest. You couldn’t help the sharp gasp and quiet whimper as the joints in your neck painfully cracked.

The last thing you could remember was being frozen in fear, a perfect imitation of a deer stopped by the glare of headlights. Then Sam bursting through your door. A gun shot and furniture being thrown. Douglass hissing and bolting out your door. 

_Douglass_.

Your breath caught in your throat at that thought. What if he’d gotten outside? What if something had happened to him? You were fairly certain that your fate was already decided, as bleak a realization as that was, but you knew you’d be able to face whatever was in store for you with more dignity if you knew Douglass was okay. 

But those troubling thoughts would have to wait, even as your heart clenched with worry, and tears began trickling down your cheeks unbidden. You looked to your side despite the spasm of pain in your neck and shoulders, and your eyes locked on the dark stain on Sam’s shirt. It looked shiny and wet under the dull yellow gleam of the old incandescent bulb that barely lit the rusted out room.

“Sam.” You whispered as loud as you dared. “Sam, c’mon, Sam!”

But Sam didn’t respond. The only sign that he was actually alive was the sound of his low rasping breaths and the shallow rise and fall of his stomach.

As you began pulling your wrists and ankles against the zip ties that were trapping you in the chair, the high pitched ringing of rusted iron hinges halted you in a heartbeat. And when a warm voice, tinged with a slight accent filled the ensuing silence, your breath all but froze in your throat.

“Excellent. You’re awake.” The voice said. “I was hoping you’d be awake for this. I believe your beloved will be joining us any minute now.”

You willed your heart to slow its rapid tempo to no avail. And despite the fear and nauseating resignation of your current situation, you couldn’t help but let the spark of hope ignite in your chest.

 _Steve was alive. And Steve was coming for you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s kind of a hopeful ending right??? RIGHT??? I mean, the next part is gonna hurt, but we’re near the end. And see! I TOLD yall. Douglass is just fine. Clint’s got him in his soft but manly arms.
> 
> Look for the next part in about 2 weeks? Probably? And for those of you wondering, yes, it’s gonna be the request for reader to get hurt and for Steve to be hella sad. Get ready for some light whump.


End file.
